


O victory forget your underwear we're free

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Beat Generation, I diddly done it, M/M, Run On Sentences, abuse of parentheses, all my usual antics, gratuitous letter references, i made a beats au, like hardcore, no idea if there's any sort of audience for this, these babies run on for like the entire length of the equator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 12:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9385115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which the year is 1947, Alexander Hamilton does not very much enjoy iambic pentameter, (or any pentameter, for that matter,) and John Laurens very much enjoys staring at him.--A Beat Generation AU, basically. feat. schmoopy lams





	

**Author's Note:**

> So,,,,,, here we are,,  
> I was just thinking about the beats and how actually??? It is a Good Concept for a Hamilton au???? Cause like. Literary revolution. Columbia. Queerness. So here's my shitty attempt at expressing my ideas, if anyone wants to see more of this I will continue with probably random snapshots  
> if not this will forever be a disappointing oneshot haha  
> Title is a line from Howl

_December, 1947_

Hamilton is lying on Laurens' bed (on, not in, his near-unclothed limbs splayed over the sheets because he knows they're too thin to offer any more protection from the gentle sting of the frigid air anyway,) cigarette quietly burning and half-forgotten in his hand, eyes glazed in that peculiar, particular way they are when he's drifting down some beautiful rabbit hole somewhere in his mind, and as much as he loves talking with him, (among other things-- and _Christ_ , those other things really are fucking delightful, sometimes he doesn't care that they're supposed to be immoral, sometimes he is at loss as to how he ever enjoyed existing before them,) Laurens wouldn't dare to break the moment. Laurens looks at him-- sees him, truly, not like he's only just seeing him but like he's only just appreciating him, which, of course, he's done many many times before and has made well known his unalterable, infinite sentiments in myriad ways, of course he's not only just appreciating Hamilton now, but that's the best comparison he can drag up with his mind fogged as it is by the same goddamned man lying parallel to him. Goddamned, he nearly stifles a snort. Goddamned, certainly, both of their souls were, eternally condemned for such an astounding cumulation of vices he didn't know which circle of hell--because surely even their greatest virtues combined could never send either of them anywhere else-- would be the one tasked. Hamilton cracks his motionless state, dragging on his cigarette, eyebrows set the way they do on the semi-rare occasion he considers the thoughts about to cross into words. His knuckles twitch forward, fingertips curled limply at his cheek. Smoke unfurls at his nostrils, floating up and out, slow.  
"It's all bullshit, you know?"  
Laurens bows his head in agreement, fluid and slow. In a melted, liquid motion, he moves closer, lazily draping an arm over the man's shoulders.  
"Everything," His gaze remains fixed on something beyond the thin plaster of Laurens' scrappy apartment, jaw set in equal parts contemplation and aggravation. "I hate it." His head dips towards the other's chest in some sort of resignation.  
"I know what you mean."  
A wilted ghost of an exhale passes Hamilton's lips, loosely shaped tendrils of smoke flitting out at a gentle pace.  
"The whole world," He starts again, his words coming more thought through than his usual semi-automatic, passion frenzied eloquence. Laurens' eyebrow dips. That's dangerous. "is a mass of fools."  
His gaze flicks to the side, dispelling of its sort of dreamy distance at once, meeting Laurens' eyes.  
"I could almost except you." His mouth quirks up in that odd half-smirk that so very often has some witty, needle-sharp remark stored just beneath it, that so often leads to him being chewed, kicked-- or, on rare, particularly biting (and usually kind of hilarious) occasions-- _knocked_ out. Laurens nearly smiles at that, before realizing he is going to have to be the one to deal with Hamilton in his imminent black mood. They always start this way, with him asserting his undying disgust with everything in this god-forsaken (as if that meant anything to either of them,) maddeningly uniform, grey concrete slab of a planet, save one John Laurens. He finds it equal parts flattering and frustrating.  
"That's some kinda bullshit, Ham, and you know it." The curve of his smile betrays his apparently exasperated tone, long fingers absent-mindedly toying with Hamilton's hair.  
"No 's not. The _whole world's_ some bullshit. Bullshit filled with bad writing."  
Laurens shrugs. Hamilton drags on his cigarette.  
"Fair point."  
He feels Hamilton's huffy groan vibrating against his chest. He tries his damnedest not to smile.  
(He fails.)  
"You're so good, Laurens. So goddamn _good_."  
Laurens quirks an vaguely amused eyebrow.  
"And where's this coming from?"  
Hamilton shifts, now practically in Laurens' lap, tweaking his neck so he can meet his eyes.  
"I know you don't think so," He continues, and Laurens can tell he's ignoring him, "but you are. Really." Laurens shakes his head, smiling.  
"You're real sweet when you wanna be, Alexander."  
"And your ideas are good, too. Your dad's just an asshole."  
Laurens' brow furrows.  
"He's not an asshole. He's just--" The space between words is just short of half a second too long. "--misguided."  
Hamilton snorts, supremely indelicately.  
"Oh, sure. 'Cause dropping bombs on innocent people _isn't_ asshole behavior."  
Laurens purses his lips. In an entirely unprecedented move, he sends the bubbling lump of frustration and _it's complicated goddammit you don't understand_ spiraling into the depths of his chest, swallowing it with his saliva. They could get into it later. After a quiet moment-- Laurens fiddling with Hamilton's hair, Hamilton smoking in silence-- Laurens feels him sigh as he shifts against him, seeming to understand they were dropping the subject without him having to say it.  
"I should write this shit down."  
Laurens grins, eyes widened half in genuine surprise and half in jest.  
"I never thought I would live to see the day. Alexander Hamilton, write a love poem, for me." He places a hand to his heart, still grinning impishly.  
"Didn't mean it like that, jackass."  
He rolls his eyes.  
"I suppose it'll be an iambic sonnet."  
Hamilton's nose crinkles with something like genuine disgust at the very suggestion of writing his poetry, his unalterable truth, within the suffocating confines of meter and rhyme.  
"Never mind all that before, you're actually horrible."  
"You don't really think that."  
He sighs, heavy and dragging with stubbornness, a silent confirmation.  
"And I didn't mean it like that," Hamilton furrows his brow in condemnation, "It wouldn't be a _love poem_. I would sooner die than write a sonnet, for Christ's sake."  
Laurens suddenly becomes aware of the smile tugging at his lips. He lets it be.  
"I know."

He kisses the top of his head lightly, lingering just a second too long to be mistaken for brotherly.  
"I know you know.", Hamilton mumbles, an undeniably content note resting under his mock-grumbly huff. Again he looks at him-- just looks at him, takes in his very nearly delicate looking frame, (he would say simply "delicate", but he knows far better, he knows the stuff of which Hamilton is made and it is pure, raw, unrelenting and unbreakable ambition, and such a force has not a subatomic speck of frailty in its entire roaring, burning being,) his dark eyes, (and God, those eyes. They alone can make his pulse stutter and stumble and boom in his temples, his words tangle and dissolve before they reach his tongue, engulf his skin in a delicate, pleasant flame,) the upturned left corner of his mouth, his nose, sharply angular as his tongue and in turn, his mind. And Laurens, inexplicably, feels an entirely unannounced, incredible surge of fondness for the man lying across his lap. Something behind his ribs contorts and contracts and swells, sending gentle, pleasantly warm waves through his body with each throb.  
"I am gonna write about you, though."

He raises his eyebrows.  
"Really, now? What would you say?"  
Hamilton smirks, eyes slightly narrowed and eyebrow quirked, left corner of his mouth wriggled sharply up, in the way he does when he wants something and has just figured how to get it, and Laurens would be lying if he said he didn't flush a little.  
"Don't be so modest, dear." Hamilton clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly, "I suppose since words clearly don't convince you," He repositions himself so he's straddling him, "I'll have to use actions."  
And then Laurens kisses him and everything feels ok.

**Author's Note:**

> GOTTA GET THAT ACTIONS RATHER THAN WORDS REF IN THERE SOMEWHERE  
> oops I just realized Hams' cigarette kinda disappears  
> just pretend he puts it out at some point and Laurens didn't notice cause he's too preoccupied being in love with him  
> any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, I live off that shit  
> Sorry this is basically wasted potential, I tried and I failed but I spent too long re-reading this to not post it so now yall get to be as disappointed as I am


End file.
